Jealous of You

I see your posts. You talk about how hard it is to potty train your daughter that is younger than mine. Potty training isn’t even on our radar right now, to be truthful. That’s not going to happen for at least another year or so…if we’re lucky.

I’m jealous of you.

I see your statuses. How tired you are from running from one sport to the next, then on to birthday parties. My son can’t play team sports; he gets too overstimulated. And he doesn’t get invited to birthday parties.

I’m jealous of you.

I see you at the store. You get away with people not looking twice at your kids. You don’t see that look of recognition – and sometimes of pain – as they notice your child’s extra chromosome. I see you in the malls, walking with your kids, not worried about what next sound is going to set them running in the opposite direction. I see you at my other son’s basketball games; walking in from the parking lot to cheer for your child, as I sit with my son who is hiding in the back of my car. His autism fills the space between us.

I’m so jealous of you.

You capture every milestone as they come naturally for your child. First steps. First words. I capture those, too. But they are after hours and hours of therapy, sleepless nights and drained bank accounts. You talk about goals kicked and awards won. I speak of services gained and lawsuits averted. You fought for your child’s place on team. I fight for my child’s place in the classroom.

I hate myself for being jealous of normal.

It’s not your fault you don’t have kids with special needs anymore than it’s my fault that I do. With my oldest, I loved meeting those milestones, even bragged about them a little.

I didn’t get it. I had no frame of reference. I didn’t realize how great it was that he developed the right muscles in the right way to sit, crawl, then walk. I didn’t get with my other typical developing child how great it was that speech set in without us having to painstakingly draw language out bit by bit…sign by sign…sound by sound.

And I’m sure I don’t realize how lucky I am to have an autistic son who can talk, and a daughter with Down syndrome who is even as healthy as she is.

Jealousy is a worthless emotion. Even if it pushes you to do more or be more, you’re not doing it for the right reasons. I fight this jealousy. And, on days like today, I lose.

I’m jealous of you.

Lexi is a writer and stay at home mother to four children. She has three boys who were born in less than 3 years and one daughter. Her middle son has autism, her daughter has Down syndrome. She writes somewhat honestly about all of this at Mostly True Stuff.